Another week went by, and Jenna had to climb down from every wild thing she had done during this perplexing time. Her nerve endings seemed on fire, and while she had much to do, little will to do it. Inti’s photos for one. She felt she should rush this job with the studio she had used for Hull’s art inventory, but she had had to wait for the negatives to be processed. The camera might be “perfect,” as Hull had said, but it was not easy or particularly fast when it came to the final images used for the prints. While she had no word from Hull, she assumed that Jorge knew something, but he only occasionally remarked on how blessed they were with his absence. Did Vincent pine for her, lust for her, gnash his teeth in demented longing, just as she felt like doing?
After more days of agonized waiting, Jenna wearily plodded through the NewsLink lobby, where she spotted Tasha with Mrs. Hull. Deep in conversation even as the crowd of employees elbowed past them, the two women waved her over. Jenna didn’t want to move their way but did finally because the diminutive wife of her boss looked at her so intently. “We’re going out for a drink. Want to come with us?” Tasha said.
Mrs. Hull smiled softly. “Yes, please do.”
“I’m Jenna McCann, your new husband’s assistant,” she stumbled and corrected herself, “I meant your husband’s new assistant.”
“I know you. And I knew this already.”
Jenna stopped breathing, but managed to get out, “That’s right.”
“You came to the foundation party.”
“Yes.”
“And once at the hotel.” Jenna barely nodded. Why on earth did she keep telling this woman who she was, as if she’d been somehow invisible every unfortunate time she’d met her.
Angelo and the Lincoln Town Car awaited them, but Jenna decided to run back up to her desk to get her inventory, just in case Hull himself showed up. She had to have some reason for being in their company, and after all, it could be weeks before she saw him again. “Five minutes,” she said loudly and left them standing agape. Did she really care if they left? No, but she held her breath while the elevator ascended.
At last, thick leather binder in hand, Jenna curled herself as far as she could away from the other women in the back seat of the Town Car. Tasha leaned over across Mrs. Hull, who sat in the uncomfortable middle, and said, “When we go out for drinks, we’re all in this together. Don’t forget that.”
What could this possibly mean? Would she have to pay her part of the tab? She’d better watch herself and not drink too much. “Do you enjoy the job, Jenna?” Sabine Hull looked closely at her.
“Very much. It’s a great change from Ohio, pretty glamorous and all, and taking the photographs of your art has been wonderful.”
“Too much, all too much.”
“Excuse me?” Jenna pressed herself back against the seat.
“We have too much. I tell Vincent all the time, but does he listen? You know where he is now? France, looking for a chateau to buy, if you can believe that, in the Champagne region. It’s his favorite place but so cold there, cold and damp. Still he is determined.” The woman smelled of a light, sweet fragrance, and wore a lilac-blue dress, maroon pumps on her slender feet, and carried a small purple clutch. Put together, contained, but Jenna still tried to shrink herself away to the side, as if the woman could smell what she had been up to. “We always go to the Plaza,” Sabine Hull said brightly. “The Oak Room.”
“Oh no, I should get home. . . .” But Sabine interrupted her. “You must come. Tasha and I do this every Friday, and we need some new blood. We’re getting bored with each other.”
“Do, Jenna. Everyone’s afraid of Sabine because of who she’s married to, and they just can’t stand me. I’ve been around the place too long, and I think I’ve dated every writer there.” She laughed and patted Jenna on the knee, and up front Angelo laughed too. “Stop that, Angelo. You’re supposed to pretend you don’t know as much as you actually do.”
“I’m saving it for my book,” he called to them over his shoulder.
“Very funny, mister,” Tasha called back.
Jenna had to agree and figured, no matter how much it cost, maybe she could just get drunk and blend into the wallpaper. And she’d never eaten at the Plaza but felt pretty sure that some major dinner loomed in her future. Angelo’s car phone rang, and he picked up. Pausing a moment, he said, “Yes, sir, of course. We’re headed to the Plaza now, so I’ll tell them, Mrs. Hull, Tasha, and your new assistant.”
Jenna felt her head go fuzzy, but Sabine looked even more upset. “What’s this, Angelo?”
“Mr. Hull just landed at JFK and said he’d meet you in about an hour.”
The three women sat silently until at last Sabine remarked loudly, “Oh crap, merde, merde, merde.”
Jenna just looked over at Tasha, unsure about all this but praying for divine intervention, as in a quick bout of the flu or some other excuse to get out of this dinner. Tasha stared her down expressively, as if to convey, “Say nothing, just go with this.”
The three traipsed through the sumptuous gold-leaf-covered lobby into the wood-bound luxury of the Oak Room, and Jenna stopped at the threshold, staring up at the carved ceiling. This place looked and smelled like a heaven of food and drink, a kingdom all its own, and she vowed right there to enjoy every single part of it, up until the moment she had to slip Hull the inventory and flee. Whatever else happened, she would stay sober long enough to savor roast beef and all the trimmings, which she had already seen flash by her on an elaborate cart covered in huge silver serving dishes.
The vodka martini Sabine—yes—she was directed to call her by her first name—Sabine had ordered for her went down like cold syrup of the gods. By the time she finished it, she had gawked at every diner in the place, had listened to a long discussion of a sale at Henri Bendel’s and the virtues of a purple over a green purse, and had spotted a television personality in the corner of the room. The one problem: Sabine had decided they should wait to eat their main course until her husband showed up. “I warn you now,” the lady said sharply, “he’s always late. It’s his way of telling you how important he is,” and she laughed. “His Goldenness, that’s what we call him.” Tasha smiled, while Jenna looked away. It wouldn’t do for her to join in any criticism of him.
They ordered a second round of martinis, also three shrimp cocktails and a Caesar salad to share, but by now Jenna wasn’t sure she could eat anything or even that she wanted to. “These martinis are terrific. Where have these been all my life?” She giggled, and the two stunning women, each in her own way, seemed to laugh right along with her. The medieval-looking chandeliers twinkled down upon her, and she nibbled on a shrimp, dipping it into the very hot sauce, and then kept swiveling her head, at least that’s how she experienced it, while taking in all the glory of the room. A king might preside here, and alas they awaited one. The minute she thought this, she vowed to eat even more to dilute the vodka, but soon enough the hors d’oeuvres disappeared, and Mrs. Hull’s phone pinged insistently. “Oui, Vincent, c’est dommage, l’heure, l’heure. Pourqoi tout le temps?”
“The always-being-late problem,” Tasha whispered above the other woman’s conversation.
“Time fuck!” Jenna spluttered, quite pleased with herself, but thank god the other two didn’t hear her. She looked down at her watch. It was nine thirty. If you didn’t eat by six thirty in Ohio, something was wrong with you because then you’d have to sleep on a full stomach. You would undoubtedly have nightmares, a piece of information she managed to get out in full sentences to the two sophisticated women she was supposedly dining with. Fortunately they didn’t look any too sober either; in fact, they were all pretty much in the bag because by now they had actually inhaled three martinis each.
Even so, when at last the looming figure of Vincent Hull appeared near the maître d’, Sabine managed to rise and meet him halfway as he strode toward them. To Jenna’s booze-addled eyes, Hull’s wife wobbled a bit, and she cursed herself for not getting out of there in time to avoid the man himself. Tasha had somehow made her way to the ladies’ room, and now she and the Hulls occupied the same table alone together.
“Have I missed the party?” Vincent boomed out at them, looking remarkably fresh after his transatlantic journey as he ran a hand through his thick hair. His tanned, expressive face seemed to welcome her, despite the potentially dire situation, and he looked full on at her, no hesitation at all. Instantly Jenna had the feeling of a giant, collective stare directed at herself from every other person in the room.
“You’ve missed only the beginning,” Jenna said too quickly. She wanted to get the talking part over with so she could leave.
Within minutes Tasha strode back their way, so commanding, always as if she marched toward her own future, this evening in a sleek, dark green dress, her hair hanging in a long braid, and around her neck a hammered bronze Maltese cross necklace. Hull stood, pulling out her chair, then sat down again. In the midst of all their drinking, it seemed they already had ordered dinner, which Sabine explained to her husband, but as yet no food beyond the hors d’oeuvres had appeared, and now the maître d’ returned to their table to apologize. “Unfortunately, well, this is unprecedented for us”—he pronounced it as “unpreecedented”—“The chef has quit.”
Vincent threw up his hands in mock horror. “They love to quit. It’s their only option.”
Tasha interrupted, “But we’re starving to death. We’ve been sitting here for three hours.”
“Waiting for you, Vincenzo.” Sabine Hull rubbed her hand with her napkin, as if polishing something. “Always late. It’s a disease, but I can’t think of what it might be called.”
“Your English isn’t good enough.” Hull sipped his wine. “This isn’t any good either.”
The maître d’ still stood nearby, embarrassed for every reason in the world. “Some of the waiters have stepped in and are cooking the food, so please just wait for a few more minutes.”
“Are you serious?” Hull said loudly. “I doubt they can cook anything edible.”
“Vincent!” Sabine socked his arm, and Jenna giggled, then hid her face in her napkin, while images of his body parts rolled through her head. Oh god, she had to get out of there.
At this moment, Vincent pulled out his chair, every eye in the place upon him, and marched toward the kitchen. “What’s he doing?” Jenna by now felt stuck in a bad dream.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he tried to cook the dinner himself.” Under the gaze of the multitudes, Sabine pulled out a cigarette and lit up. At this the maître d’ ran over.
“No, no, miss. Sorry Madame Hull, no smoking at the Plaza.”
The Madame looked about to slap the man, and now Jenna knew she had to take action. Where was her purse and where the inventory binder? She stuck her hand beneath her chair, flapping it about trying to hit something. Staring down again, bending down, she wanted to crawl onto the floor, but finally these fat objects let themselves be felt right next to her left leg. “I must go,” she said stiffly.
“No, no, you can’t,” a chorus of drunken cries came up from Tasha and Sabine. “We need you.”
Even in her stupor, Jenna recognized a seriously bad idea when she saw one, and just as Vince marched their way, followed by a waiter pushing the roast beef cart, she managed to stand, her purse and the binder giving her welcome ballast. “Thank you, thank you all so much,” she intoned like the hostess at a charity ball. How she got out of there, in later years she couldn’t ever remember. The lighting so dim, herself completely hammered, she prayed that almost everybody at that table forgave her or didn’t notice, and Vincent of course, would understand what she had done. She had, in fact, taken one for the team, that’s how she wanted to think of it in the end, despite the fact that very stupidly, she’d forgotten to hand him the blasted art inventory.
Outside she spotted Angelo and the car, but leaned in through the window to wave him off. “I have to walk. Just forget about me.”
“How could I do that?” He threw out his hands dolefully.
But Jenna refused the temptation to enjoy yet more luxury and congratulated herself that at least she had gotten out before the bill came. From Central Park South all the way down to 20th, she actually made it on her own steam, and it helped that she still wore her work shoes, nothing pointy or high, just patent leather flats. Her head began to clear. When she saw the familiar Gramercy Park Hotel on the corner, for the first time since she had moved here to New York, she felt herself at home. It was late now, almost midnight, and Jenna wondered if she would find her roommates anywhere about.
Tiptoeing into the apartment, in the darkness she could see that their two doors were open, so Allyson and Vera were off doing a Friday night thing themselves. She flopped down on her futon. This night, how awful, how drunken and right in front of Sabine Hull and Tasha. Had she said anything terrible or outrageous? Would the two other women have been able to read the signs, the shifting body moves that meant yes, she and her boss had made love recently and a lot. Jenna couldn’t even look at herself in the mirror as she brushed her hair. Unfolding what passed for her bed and climbing into it, she snuggled herself into the blankets, the newly purchased air-conditioner blasting out at her as if she crouched in a high wind. God, she hated this stuff, this artificial air.
The little cell phone Vincent had given her chirped, and for about ten seconds she thought of not answering it. Maybe he would believe her fast asleep. Unnerved, as it was after one in the morning, at first she couldn’t find it, finally knocking it off the table. By the time she’d fingered her way toward it, then figured out the buttons, only silence came through from the other end. She put it back on the table beside the bed and got up to grab a ginger ale out of the fridge, trying to stare down the phone. Maybe it had been a wrong number? It pinged again, and this time she pressed the tiny button, pulling it up to her ear. “Hello?”
At once she heard Vincent Hull’s deep voice. “Where are you, Jenna?”
“At home in bed.”
“I want to see you.”
“You did see me.”
“I want to see more of you than that. Besides, we couldn’t talk.”
Since when did they ever talk much, but she didn’t want a fight, and after all, how could she refuse, even though it was late and she was in recovery mode? “I’ve finished the inventory, in fact it’s in a binder right here.” She sought some semblance of normalcy amid the weirdness.
“Maybe you could bring it to me?”
“Now?”
“Why not now?” Jenna looked down at the shiny hands of the clock on the floor next to her bed: 1:20. Okay, so how was this going to happen? “I’ll send Angelo.”
“No,” she said sharply, startling herself.
“He’ll be there in ten minutes, and he’ll bring you back to the townhouse on 57th Street.” What was this, another residence? She hadn’t even known about this one. A secret office, perhaps one he used for his charitable foundation? Worse yet, two blocks from the Plaza.
By now halfway toward sober, Jenna jumped out of bed and pulled on some black slacks, a red T-shirt, dressy though, with a slash of lace at the collar, and piled her binder into her black leather tote bag. The binder looked sleek and professional. Angelo, Angelo, a fellow sufferer in the land of filthy lucre, what would she say to him? In a few moments she heard the discreet toot of a horn, and outside in the shadows the Lincoln hummed. She jumped in as if escaping someone or something. Angelo gazed at her in the rear view mirror, at first silent. Since she didn’t know what to say, she stared down at her purse, fumbling with the clasp compulsively. He wheeled the big car around the block and headed uptown, still without a word.
“Angelo, I’m sorry, I mean, I don’t know what to say—”
“Not necessary.”
“It is necessary. This, I don’t know how it happened.”
“No one ever does.” Angelo adjusted the mirror, tilting it slightly to get a better view of her. “You know, I worry, I really do. If you don’t mind me saying so, you’re not like the other people—girls or women or—”
“Don’t tell me, I can just imagine.”
“Not sure that you can, actually.”
“I can’t explain it to myself, but I’m alone in the world, no one to live for or look up to or really even get close to. These New York people are not so friendly, and here I am in that incredible office. Everyone’s afraid to say hello to me.”
“True, but I thought you had that writer who went up to Rye, you know, more your age. I drove him a couple of times when he first started at the magazine. He seemed like a nice guy.”
“We’re friends.” They left it at that, in part because there was no more to say, but also now Hull had positioned her somewhere ambiguously above Angelo, no longer strictly an employee, but a lover and therefore in a position of power herself, not that she had any sense it could be used, but still, it was too much. She had left the ground and floated upwards into a social stratum she neither deserved nor knew anything about.
At East 57th Street, Angelo stopped the car in front of a stately townhouse that looked to be from the Art Deco period, iron scrollwork curving over the stained-glass doorway. Jenna stepped out of the car, glad that Angelo stood beside her, as it was now close to two in the morning, no one about. She ascended the front steps, pressed the bell, which sounded like a gong in the silent night, and right away a soft buzzer hummed as she pushed the door forward. Into the extraordinary hallway she walked, its walls covered in green damask, geometrically carved wooden ceilings above. Before her hung a chandelier of iron and glass curlicues, and at the far end of the hallway, there loomed an elaborate gated elevator.
It was very old, and it creaked upwards slowly, its menacing metal bars giving her a glimpse of the ancient mottled wood that made up the interior of the building. At the second floor, where it jolted to a stop, Jenna just stood there, not really knowing how to get out. Finally she wrestled the grillwork door aside and entered a room unlike any other she had seen. She glimpsed mahogany-lined bookshelves, probably a Chardin still life, what appeared to be a Van Gogh, and finally, on a green couch, Vincent Hull himself, dressed casually now in blue jeans and one of his black T-shirts. Drink in hand, he leapt up, trying to sweep her into his arms, as he planted his drink on the table. “I waited so long for you.” His voice sounded hoarse and unnatural.
“No. I won’t do it.” She hugged the thick binder to her breasts. He took it gently from her hand and set it on a nearby table.
“Do what?”
“I don’t know.” She really had no words for whatever conversation she thought she had planned. Looking up into those deep-set eyes that spoke to her always, she felt drugged. He covered her mouth with his own, harshly, not waiting at all for her to respond, but of course she did, and what happened next she could never forget. He moved her forward as if to go to another room, but she grabbed his arm and pulled him down toward her. “Here.”
“Here?”
“Yes, on the floor.”
“What?” He let her pull off his shirt, then slide her hands over his hips and unbutton his jeans, but he swept off the rest while she waited. She did not let her gaze waver. She took off her own clothes slowly, as he sank down and watched without a word. Once completely naked, she stood over him as he grabbed a pillow for his head and looked up at her. Except for that one really hostile moment she had ravaged him in his bed, normally he had dominated her so absolutely that she might have been a captive lady in the castle keep. Now he took the place of captive.
She sank down onto his chest and began to kiss him gently from the forehead down to his throat, his chest, to his belly, and finally to his sex. He groaned and closed his eyes, while she whispered into his ear, “I want you to beg.”
Even in the midst of this, he laughed. “Never. I don’t beg.”
Once again, she moved slowly over his body, her lips resting for a moment in his secret places, in places she had never touched before, and then she caressed with her mouth the very center of the man until he started moving hotly to touch her. “No touch,” she whispered again. “Just beg me.”
“For what?”
“To fuck you.”
“No, no, you’ve lost your mind, I don’t—” But her fluttering tongue had him gasping now, and though he tried to touch her, too, she flicked away his hand.
“Just say please. Do you know how to say please?”
“Okay, fuck me.” He breathed heavily against her breasts and seemed about to explode.
“Say please.” Jenna herself was about to scream with pleasure, but she held herself in so tightly, bottled up with her rage against this man she wanted but didn’t even know.
“Please.” As he got this out, she sank down upon him and the sound that came out of his mouth she had never heard before, but at the same moment, she herself let out a cry. Hot, sweating, still inside her, Vince curled his arms around her and rolled her onto the floor next to him, wanting to hold her there against him, but she struggled and slid away. He pulled a throw rug around them, drawing them together. Almost but not quite, Jenna drifted into sleep. After some moments, she pulled herself up, aware somehow that these postures, this attitude, could not exist where she currently lay. While the man watched, silent, she pulled on her clothes and then, before she could leave, drew the inventory binder off the couch and flipped through it quickly. Fat as a Russian novel, it looked professional, consequential, a careful record of size, date, and provenance of artworks that, taken together, she had valued in the hundreds of millions of dollars. This was her work, the only solid piece of anything meaningful she had done for him. She laid the book carefully down next to him. Vincent still said nothing, though at last, “You’re going?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t”
But Jenna fled into the hall of this singular abode, more appropriate for an eighteenth-century magnate or country gentleman, yet stuck right here in New York City. She wasn’t sure Angelo had waited, but as she peered around her, there the car purred like a panther after a feed. She climbed aboard and lost herself in its leathery darkness. She did not speak at all.